Heir Presumptive

by Henry Wade

  For a minute the two continued to look into each other’s eyes. Then something, perhaps a realization of beauty—of the utter impossibility of losing it—seemed to break through Eustace’s hesitation. With a gasp that was almost a cry he pulled Jill down to him and covered her face with hot, eager kisses. The girl responded, then pulled herself away; her eyes were shining brilliantly, excitedly.

  “What’s the title?” she asked.

  “You little devil”, laughed Eustace, pulling her towards him again.

  With a quick movement of her hand she tweaked the end of his bow tie.

  “Celebrate”, she said.

  Chapter Six

  Invitation

  IT is one thing to come to an excited, hot-blooded decision; quite another to set about cold-bloodedly planning to carry that decision into effect. So Eustace Hendel discovered in the weeks that followed. He was not handicapped by scruples; his upbringing had provided him with no principles other than those of self-preservation and self-interest. He was not a coward; he was quite prepared to face the risk of discovery and punishment which the decision involved. Although there were elements of weakness in his character, as was evinced by his volatile spirits and the ease with which he could be led by a stronger personality, there was a streak of obstinate determination in his make-up which would keep him to a disagreeable task once he had started on it. It was rather in the practical difficulties to be encountered that Eustace’s troubles materialized.

  He had one great asset. He was—or had been—a doctor, and he had a working knowledge of drugs, if not of the rarer homicidal poisons. He also knew the precise whereabouts of the vital spots of the human body. A lay murderer, however determined, might have considerable difficulty in locating the exact position of carotid artery, jugular vein, liver, or even heart, as targets for his knife or bullet; a doctor would work under no such handicap. A doctor possessed, too, ways and means of obtaining poisons which were not available to the layman, at any rate without great risk. There were books, too, which most doctors possessed; unfortunately Eustace had sold his, with his instruments, when he came into Mrs. Fotherwaite’s money in 1926; now he had perforce to hunt round second-hand bookshops in order to find a Holt’s Medical Jurisprudence; it would have been easy to get a copy from a medical bookseller, but it would also—Eustace thought—be unwise; avoiding them, he had some difficulty in finding the book he wanted, and at last did go to a second-hand shop near the Euston Road which had been largely patronised by medical students in his young days. Still, that was twelve or fifteen years ago; nobody would recognize him now.

  Having bought his copy, Eustace set himself to run through the possibilities. Broadly, he thought, they amounted to five: shooting, stabbing, ‘the blunt instrument’, strangulation, and poison. Each had its advantages and very definite disadvantages. Strangulation might be ruled out straight away; it was impossible to imagine any circumstances in which an able-bodied man like David Hendel would allow himself to be strangled or smothered, even in his sleep—unless, of course, he was first drugged, and in that case poison or stabbing would be much simpler.

  Shooting was a fairly common form of homicide, but it was noisy and therefore dangerous. Eustace had no idea how to get hold of a silencer and even doubted whether such things existed outside the realms of crime fiction. He had not got a pistol, and that again was difficult to get in these days without running a risk of subsequent identification. He had a shot-gun. To stage a shooting accident seemed the only possible form of fire-arm homicide which was open to him—and what chance was there of his ever being in a shooting party with David Hendel?

  Stabbing; now, for a doctor, that had its attractions; knowledge of anatomy gave him the vital spots of the body; with that knowledge so little force was needed, without it a layman might hack and stab and do no fatal harm. Besides, what better weapon was there than a surgeon’s knife?

  ‘The blunt instrument’—the battering in of a skull or more scientific fracturing of its base, had certain obvious advantages over its rivals. It was much commoner than either shooting or stabbing and so should be easier to stage in a way which might point to rough-house work, not to a planned murder. The weapon could be any heavy object found on the spot and so much less easily traced to an individual. It provided the best opportunity for surprise; an attack—one blow—from behind. With his surgical knowledge the actual weight and direction of the blow presented no problems.

  All these methods, however, postulated one condition: proximity to the object of attack. That clearly was going to be a fundamental difficulty. How was he going to get near enough to David to have any chance of making a personal attack upon him? He was in the worst possible position to do so; if he had known him intimately he might have stayed in the same house with him; if he had been a stranger he could have got near him without attracting attention; as it was he was neither one thing nor the other and any attempt to get near David, except for a momentary, casual meeting, would merely arouse suspicion.

  There remained the method of poison. By that means alone was it possible to kill without approaching the victim. Difficult as it might appear, it was just possible to send poison by post, or at any rate to ‘lay’ it in the absence of the taker. In some circumstances, of course, homicide by poison would be absurdly easy. Living continuously in the same house with a person, for instance, would give a man with knowledge every opportunity of putting him or her out without incurring any suspicion at all. Or if the victim were an invalid, or a hypochondriac, with a fixed habit of taking medicines or special foods, there would be ample scope for ‘laying’ poison without ever being in the presence of the taker. But was it likely that a healthy-looking devil like David took medicines or health-foods, other than occasionally? And what chance, again, was there of ever living in the same house with him? One chance perhaps; that Blanche might one day invite them both to stay with her in the new home which she was to make. And from that chance even Eustace turned.

  So far, then, there had been nothing but a gradual elimination of impossibilities, with no compensating emergence of a feasible method—unless one counted poison by post, a thin chance. Dispirited, Eustace toyed with the idea of chucking the whole business, but here his streak of obstinacy came into play; he would not admit to Jill that he was beaten; at any rate not till he had made a really determined effort to carry out his declared intention.

  Jill herself displayed characteristic self-control and detachment. She was quite prepared to give Eustace a fair chance to recover his position with her, but nothing less than success would do; she yielded to his wishes in so far as not joining Lanberg’s ‘Cosmopolitan’ company was concerned, but she kept her name on the agent’s books for a suitable engagement with a more reputable manager and even went so far as to accept a cabaret engagement for the autumn season. Eustace was angry and anxious but, being unable to repeat his Valtano treatment, he was helpless. For the time being . . . until he had got rid of David.

  Of course David’s death did not end the matter. Apart from the boy, there was still the old man, Lord Barradys, alive and kicking and only slightly eccentric at ninety. That type of man often lived to a great age, which might mean another ten years before the title and property came to him, Eustace. But once the succession was assured there would be no difficulty about raising the wind. Quite apart from money-lenders, the banks themselves would be ready to advance on such security. That swine Isaacson would be tumbling over himself with eagerness to arrange a new loan, and on very different terms to the present one. Damn the fellow, he could whistle for it. And that reminded Eustace that the money-lender had not repeated his attempt to serve a writ on him; surely that must mean that he had ‘smelt the wind’, had realized the possibility of Eustace succeeding and was not anxious to antagonize a possibly valuable client.

  Eustace’s spirits bounded up as the idea developed. No doubt that was what it was; the fellow had regretted his dirty behaviour and was lying low, waiting to see how the wind really did
blow. Surely this was the psychological moment to turn defence into attack, to go boldly and demand a fresh loan, on the strength of his prospects.

  The idea had no sooner come into his head than he put it into effect. Putting on his tidiest suit of clothes, Eustace walked round to Jermyn Street and entered a door nearly opposite the Piccadilly Arcade. The house was an old one and there was no lift, but it was clean and well kept; neat black and white plates indicated the occupants of the first two floors; the tenants of the higher flights did not so advertise their location.

  Walking up to the first floor, Eustace rang the bell of a door marked ‘S. Isaacson, Private Banker’. It was opened by a neatly dressed girl who asked him to take a seat in the little waiting-room while she took his name. Eustace fully expected to be kept waiting, as a mark of disapproval; he was agreeably surprised when he was shown into the principal’s room at once. Isaacson rose and bowed him politely into a chair. The money-lender was unmistakably a Jew, but he was far removed from the popular caricature of his type. He was a small, clean-shaven man, with grey hair and gold eyeglasses. He allowed very little expression to appear upon his face, and when he talked his small, well-shaped hands remained quietly folded in front of him.

  “I am glad to see you, Mr. Hendel”, he said. “I was hoping that you would call after my letter to you of July 24th.”

  “Couldn’t manage it”, said Eustace casually. “Had to go down to my cousin’s funeral in Devonshire. I stayed there longer than I expected.”

  “Ah, yes. And you were perhaps too busy to acknowledge the letter.”

  “Not too busy, no, but I had no immediate suggestion to make, so there seemed no object in writing.”

  “And you have now a suggestion?”

  Isaacson’s tone remained quiet, almost uninterested.

  “Certainly I have. The whole position’s altered.”

  Eustace tried to give an air of confidence to his words.

  “I am glad to hear it”, said the Jew quietly.

  “I imagine that you saw about my cousin’s death?”

  “Mr. Howard Hendel’s? Yes; a very tragic affair.”

  “And his son too. That’s altered things a lot.”

  “You have perhaps received a substantial legacy? May I congratulate you?”

  “Legacy? No. A beggarly fifty quid. But of course my expectations now are considerable. I want a new loan on the strength of them.”

  Mr. Isaacson permitted himself a slight raising of the eyebrows.

  “A new loan? On what security, Mr. Hendel?”

  “Why, dammit, man. I’ve a very good chance of succeeding now. And what’s more”, he added hotly, irritated by the other’s quiet indifference, “what’s more, you know it perfectly well. Why else did you withdraw your writ?”

  Isaacson gave his shoulders a faint shrug.

  “I think it had its effect, Mr. Hendel”, he said. “I do not wish to carry things to extremes if they can be avoided, but you had ignored two letters from me and I gathered the impression that you did not think I was in earnest. It was necessary to show you that I was. As I say, I think you now realize that.”

  Eustace felt rather nonplussed. He had the sensation of striking with a club at a quick-footed man armed with a rapier.

  “Well, anyway; what about things now? I could do with five hundred for a year, but not of course at anything like the rates you charge me on the present one.”

  “But I do not understand, Mr. Hendel. You speak of your prospects of succeeding; succeeding to what? The peerage?”

  “Yes, of course. David Hendel’s only got one son and no wife. After them, I come.”

  “But a peerage is no security for a loan, Mr. Hendel, unless it is accompanied by estate, either real or personal. Unless you have some proof that you are likely to succeed in that respect, I fear that the position is hardly altered.”

  “But I know . . .”

  Eustace stopped abruptly. It had suddenly flashed across him that he was doing an incredibly stupid and dangerous thing. If anything happened to David and he succeeded to the estate and suspicions arose, Isaacson might come forward and say that he, Eustace, had been expecting to succeed. Too late now to undo what he had done, but it would be wiser to say nothing about his knowledge of the entail.

  “Well, I mean to say”, he went on lamely, “it must make some difference that there are now only two people between me and the peerage, instead of four. Halved the odds, hasn’t it?”

  “Hardly that, Mr. Hendel”, said the money-lender quietly. “It makes a slight difference, yes, but not a substantial one. You forget, perhaps, the possibility of re-marriage on the part of Captain David Hendel, even though the life of his existing son may regrettably not be regarded as a good one.” (‘Damn these money-lenders’, thought Eustace, ‘they know everything about everybody’.) “On the strength of this slight difference I am prepared to extend the existing loan for a further year on the same terms and I shall not press for an immediate payment of the outstanding instalment of interest, but beyond that I regret that I cannot go.”

  He rose to his feet, and Eustace instinctively followed suit, feeling that he was being dismissed. The wind was out of his sails, however, and he walked out without further protest.

  It was at least something to be relieved of the immediate pressure of the debt; before the next instalment of interest fell due something might have turned up. Still, that was a very negative form of comfort; the actual, concrete situation was just as serious as ever. He was living above his income, and even at that could not find enough money to keep Jill; his earnings from play were falling off, undoubtedly because it was becoming more and more difficult to find pigeons and, without proper rooms, to tackle them under suitable conditions; finally, he was in debt to a money-lender and could not even meet the interest on the loan.

  Oppressed by gloomy thoughts, Eustace decided that a drink might cheer him up, especially if he could find some cheery soul to drink with him. As he was near Piccadilly Circus he turned into Julian’s American Bar and looked about him. To his disappointment, there was no one whom he knew; gloomily he wedged himself into a corner and ordered a double ‘Julian’s Dream’. This insidious cocktail comprises a variety of ingredients known only to Julian, but its basis, like that of nearly all other reputable cocktails, is gin, and, however you may conceal it with soft essences, a double gin is a notable corpse-reviver. By the time that he had drunk it and had a talk with ‘Henri’ and exchanged witticisms with a young lady on his left and ordered another and drunk that, Eustace was seeing things in a different light. His immediate troubles had faded into the background, his future prospects were golden, his courage and spirit were soaring; he would go straight back to his rooms, settle on a plan of action for putting that . . . David out of his way, and then take Jill out to dinner. A real cracker; Valtano’s or anywhere else she liked.

  Leaving the better part of a green note behind him, Eustace emerged into daylight, felt momentarily dazed by the roar of traffic, revived under the touch of fresh air and set out for Bloomsbury. A slight haze accompanied him, but he knew his way sufficiently well not to be worried by that, and in due course he arrived home. Going straight up to his sitting-room, he pulled Holt’s Medical Jurisprudence out of the drawer in which he had sufficient discretion to keep it, and sat down in his armchair. As he did so, he noticed a letter addressed to him, propped against the clock on the mantel-piece. He did not often get letters, but when he did, this was where Mrs. Drage put them. It was a bore, and rather an effort, having to get up again, but the effect of Julian’s Dream was still sufficiently enlivening to make him curious.

  The envelope was thick and prosperous-looking, the handwriting, though unknown to him, was obviously that of a man and not of clerical type. Eustace tore it open, pulled out the large, four-folded sheet and began to read. As he did so, his jaw dropped and he stared in blank amazement at the paper in his hand. Pulling himself together with an effort of concentration, he read as fol
lows:—

  Clarge Hall,

  Market Harborough.

  14 Aug. 35.

  DEAR EUSTACE,

  I am afraid that in my early start from Coombe I forgot to come and say good-bye to you and thank you for coming down to Howard’s funeral. It is a long time since we met before that and it seems a pity that we shouldn’t know each other better. I am wondering whether you would care to come up to me for a week’s stalking next month? I have got a small forest, Glenellich, on the west coast, north of Mallaig. The lodge is only a small one but you won’t mind that; it is fine country and first-class stalking. I suggest Sept. 2nd to 8th; deer are well on and they will mostly be clean by then. There is plenty of high ground—it runs over 3000'—and of course they’ll be on it then, so I hope you’ve got a good pair of lungs. I can lend you a rifle and a glass if you haven’t got them. Of course, you may hate stalking; I’m afraid there are no grouse, but there’s a small river with sea trout and one or two lochs, so bring a rod if you like to. Blanche is coming up then and probably one other woman.

  I hope you’ll be able to manage it.

  Yours,

  David Hendel.

  Chapter Seven

  The Mournful Cry

  FOR some time Eustace Hendel sat staring at the letter in his hand. He blinked his eyes and shook himself, almost ready to believe that he had drunk too much and was dreaming. The thing seemed quite incredible; for a week or more he had been racking his brains to discover how he could possibly get within striking distance of David Hendel, and here was the fellow, who had never before shown one glimmer of friendliness to him—had, on the contrary, been freezingly rude only a fortnight ago—here he was actually inviting him to come and stay!

  Eustace dropped back into his chair with a loud bark of laughter. God, if the man only knew! Talk about offering your cheek to the smiter; this chap was holding out his throat to be cut!